The air is chilled this morning, as sweet as the last harvest wine. I open the windows just to feel startled out of my complacency, to feel alive. To feel the bumps on my arms raise and the hairs stand up, to feel cold within the this bubble of warm and illusion we create. I watch the birds at my feeder, follow the movements with my eyes and desire to write notes like that, flitting between stillness and movement, between flight and descent.